


It Always Ends in a Fight

by lysglimt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 11:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysglimt/pseuds/lysglimt
Summary: He’ll be taken in and he’ll be forced to forget or to remember. He can’t decide which would be more painful.





	It Always Ends in a Fight

          Memories flicker through the soldier’s mind, unstoppable and _overwhelming_. A brunette woman with a smile as bright as the sun, little girls with sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks; a blond man, much smaller than him, littered with bruises. His _family_. He forces the thoughts from his mind as he stares down at the man he’s just dragged from the Potomac. The same man from his memories. He awaits an intake of breath and soon enough, weak but _there_ , the man breathes. The soldier is reluctant to admit to himself that he’s relieved. As he stumbles away, he’s careful not to aggravate his fractured arm any further. It’ll heal quickly, he reminds himself. It always does.

          He avoids the roads as much as possible, self-conscious and _afraid_. Afraid of being found. Afraid of being _noticed_. It’s a hard task to achieve, remaining under the radar when his metal arm gleams in the summer sun, but he’s trying. He changes clothes quickly enough. Opting for something simple and _forgettable_. Shoving the hat on his head and keeping his eyes downcast, he walks for what feels like a century. Again, memories appear and disappear, fleeting and jumbled. The procedure, the torture, the _brainwashing_. He wishes his mind would show him the woman and girls again, he found solace with them at least.

          He finds his feet carrying him to the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. He walks through other exhibits first, marveling at the technology and history that’s been kept from him for the last seventy years. Finally, he’s greeted by a voice recounting the life of Steve Rogers, little guy from Brooklyn turned super-soldier. He wants to vomit, feeling as though there’s a pressure in his head he can’t shake. Then, he sees it, or rather sees _himself_. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He’s not that guy, not anymore, and he recognizes that he may never be him again. He longs for a time he doesn’t remember, world collapsing around him as he feels his head _spin_.

          He sits down, he has to, and he’s careful not to draw attention to himself. Not here. Desperately trying to control his breathing, he shoves both hands into his pockets; he suppresses a hiss when he jostles his arm in all the wrong ways. When he gets some semblance of control over himself, he exits the room quickly, swiping a notebook and pen from the gift shop with far too much ease and re-enters the exhibit. Hastily, he jots down as many notes as he can. The man from the bridge was his best friend. They fought and laughed together, protected each other. He was twenty-seven when he died in 1944.

          Another wave of nausea hits him like a brick and he’s forced to sit down again. A dreadful thought passes over him; his family thought he died valiantly protecting his country from the Nazis. They had absolutely no idea what Hydra did to him. What he did for _them_. He nearly gags, his vision swimming as he looks up at the image of himself plastered on the wall in front of him. He needed _out_. _Now_. Out of the country? Out of the exhibit? He had no idea, but he knew he wanted to disappear.

          He train-hopped, hitchhiked, hell even _walked_ when he had to. He ended up in New York, losing track of days and weeks along the way. He never stayed anywhere long, picking up odd jobs to make a little money. He stuck to motels and homeless shelters, they didn’t ask questions and he could come and go as he pleased. He enjoyed freedom. Finally. Stepping off of the train in New York City, immediately overwhelmed by the noise and the people, he finds himself knowingly steering clear of the Avengers Tower. He’s not ready for that, not yet.

          He gets a job in a small bookshop in Brooklyn. It’s owned by a kind old man with a thick New York accent and he feels slightly at ease for the first time in seventy years. He’s always on edge, he doesn’t think he’ll ever shake that, but he feels comfortable around Gerald and he trusts him. He comes into work, doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and then returns to the shelter. No one ever spares him a second glance. He makes enough money to put together some documents. Sure, they’re not necessarily legal, but he’s been “dead” since 1944 and intimidating enough to get some sleazy guys to make them for him.

          It’s difficult sometimes. Memories come and go, always shaking him to his core and leaving his heart _raw_ , _damaged_. One memory that hits him particularly hard is that of his mother and sisters one summer day. He can’t remember the year or place the month, but he’s _happy_. His mother is _beaming_ at him as he picks up little Rebecca, smattering her cheeks in kisses, laughing as he does so. Clara complains, so he picks her up too and his heart is so full of love and contentment it might burst. It leaves just as quickly as it came, like blowing out a candle or the strike of lightning. He feels so _empty_ when the image leaves his mind that he sits on his cot and _cries_. They think he’s dead. _Hell, they’re probably dead_. The concept seems to spur him on more and his cries turn into sobs that hurt his chest and seemingly rip his heart in two. This catches the attention of a shelter volunteer and _god_ he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. No, he doesn’t need help. No, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

          Days blur together. With the help of a sweet old librarian and many excruciating hours, suffocated by the humidity and the memories, he uses a computer to find his mother and sisters. His mother, Winifred Marie Barnes, died in December of 1970. Clara May Barnes died in 1955, killed in a car accident. He shudders at the thought, refusing to follow that path any further. Rebecca Louise Barnes, his baby sister, is still alive. He lets out a sigh of relief, pulling his hat from his head to run his hand through his hair. He briefly toys with the idea of seeking her out and seeing her for the first time in too many years. Would she even remember him? Would she even want to see him? Would she know what he _did_? He shoves his hat back on his head and squeezes his eyes shut. After printing out their pictures and taping them into his notebook, he thanks the librarian and is quick to leave.

          He finally makes enough money to purchase his ticket out of the country. His chest aches as he tells Gerald he’s leaving, moving on. Gerald smiles widely at him, giving him a firm handshake and telling him that although he’s a man of far too few words, he’s enjoyed his company. He hands him a book, one of his favorites, Gerald explains. He takes it and holds it over his heart, words caught in his throat, tears threatening to spill. He collects his things, a backpack and coat, from the shelter and leaves without looking back.

          Miraculously, he gets through airport security with no hindrances. He sinks into a seat at the gate, plane ticket held tightly in his left hand. He’s finished Gerald’s book, but as he turns the last page, he notices a message scrawled across the inside back cover. A message filled with kindness and sincerity, _well wishes_.

            It reads:

            _You’re a very odd man, James. I hope one day you find a place where you feel at ease. Somewhere to call home, someone or something to love. You have been one of the most reliable employees I have ever had. I know, deep down, that you’re a good man. If you ever need anything, you know exactly where to find me._

_Gerald_

He has to fight back tears as he closes the book. He smoothes his fingers over the front cover before carefully placing it back into his bag. His flight is called moments later.

          Romania treats him well. He’s quick to pick up the language and he frequents the farmer’s market across the street from his apartment building. He uses some of his early paychecks to invest in newspapers, smattering his windows with the pages. He can’t afford bedding or much of anything for his apartment, so he opts to buy silverware from goodwill and a sleeping bag on sale at a local camping store. It’s not much, but it’s comforting to know he has the freedom to _choose_. He opens his notebook to the picture of his mother often. He misses her, misses her smile, her kind eyes. He longs for his life before the war, when smiles were common and he wasn’t destroyed, _heart and soul_ , by the war and by Hydra. He’ll never be that happy again, he decides. Not after all he’s done.

          Days blur together again, until one day time seems to stop. Usually, Wednesdays are quiet. No one bothers him and he purchases things from the local market before going about his day. Today, however, there’s a nagging feeling in his chest, something he can’t place. He waits to cross the street, but catches a man staring at him as he does. The man runs and his head _spins_ , like it did in the Smithsonian. He rushes across the street as soon as he’s able and he picks the newspaper up in both hands. The Winter Soldier has bombed the UN. _That’s not me,_ his mind screams. _God, please, that’s not me_. _Not anymore_. Bucky glances around, before stalking up the stairs to his apartment.

          He hears a faint voice in his apartment and his heart seemingly stops. _They found him_. They’ve come to take him back, surely punish him before wiping him. _Please_ , he begs, _don’t make me forget_. He gulps in a breath to steady himself, pushing open the door and stepping inside. The man from the bridge, the Smithsonian. Captain America. Steve Rogers. _Punk_. He stands there, thumbing through one of the notebooks atop Bucky’s fridge. They speak briefly, the sounds of heavy footsteps growing louder. Bucky sighs as he looks at Steve, pulling his sleeve up to reveal the shimmering gray of his left hand. _It always ends in a fight_.

          Bucky has prepared for moments like these since he began living here, since he’s remained in one place. Jump from this roof to that one if this happens. If you jump from the top of these stairs down to the lobby, you’ll be dead before they can wipe you again. Keep the backpack underneath the floorboards, so they can’t take anything you’ve fought tooth and nail to remember. Throw a few punches, deflect bullets, _fight to survive_. It’s nothing new. As he rolls across the asphalt, having been knocked from the motorcycle by the man in the black suit, he fears the worst. He’ll be taken in and he’ll be forced to _forget_ or to _remember_. He can’t decide which would be more painful.

          They shove him to the ground, holding his arms behind his back as they force his backpack from his body. Bucky holds back a whimper as a man takes it and places it in a waiting vehicle, out of sight. His mother, his sisters, his life, all held within those notebooks.  _That backpack_. He doesn’t pay attention as he’s locked into a chair in the car. He doesn’t pay attention as he’s locked into another chair, this time encased with thick glass, surrounded on all sides by guards. He is then brought before a man with glasses, a therapist, he says. Bucky feels a sense of dread grip his throat as a red light begins to flash and alarms wail. The man pulls a red notebook from his bag and Bucky becomes nauseous at the sight alone. _Please God, no_.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something to explore what Bucky got up to after The Winter Soldier and before Civil War. Thanks for reading!


End file.
